Kristin Lavransdatter (31 page)

PART III

LAVRANS BJØRGULFSØN

KRISTIN CAME HOME during the loveliest time of the spring. The Laag River raced in torrents around the farm and the fields; through the young leaves of the alder thickets the stream glittered and sparkled white with silver flashes. The glints of light seemed to have voices, singing along with the rush of the current; when dusk fell, the water seemed to flow with a more muted roar. The thunder of the river filled the air over Jørundgaard day and night, so that Kristin thought she could feel the very timbers of the walls quivering with the sound, like the sound box of a zither.

Thin tendrils of water shone on the mountain slopes, which were shrouded in a blue mist day after day. The heat steamed and trembled over the land; the spears of grain hid the soil in the fields almost completely, and the grass in the meadows grew deep and shimmered like silk when the wind blew across it. There was a sweet scent over the groves and hills, and as soon as the sun went down, a strong, fresh, sharp fragrance of sap and young plants streamed forth; the earth seemed to heave a great sigh, languorous and refreshed. Trembling, Kristin remembered how Erlend had released her from his embrace. Every night she lay down, sick with longing, and each morning she awoke, sweating and exhausted from her own dreams.

It seemed incomprehensible to her that everyone at home could avoid saying a word about the one thing that was in her thoughts. But week after week went by, and they were silent about her breach of promise to Simon and did not question what she had on her mind. Her father spent a great deal of time in the woods now that the spring plowing was done. He visited his tar-burners, and he took along his hawk and dogs and was gone for days. When he came home, he would speak to his daughter in just as friendly a manner as he always had; but he seemed to have so little to say to her, and he never asked her to come along when he went out riding.

Kristin had dreaded coming home to her mother’s reproaches, but Ragnfrid didn’t say a word, and to Kristin that felt even worse. For his ale feast on Saint Jon’s Day each year, Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn distributed to the poor people of the village all the meat and food that was saved in the house during the last week of fasting. Those who lived closest to Jørundgaard usually came in person to receive the alms. Great hospitality was shown, and Lavrans and his guests and the entire household would gather around these poor folk, for some of them were old people who knew many sagas and ballads. Then they would sit in the hearth room and pass the time drinking ale and engaging in friendly conversation, and in the evening they would dance in the courtyard.

This year Saint Jon’s Day was cold and overcast, but no one complained about it because the farmers of the valley were beginning to fear a drought. No rain had fallen since the Vigil of Saint Halvard, and there was so little snow on the mountains that in the past thirteen years people couldn’t remember seeing the river so low at midsummer.

Lavrans and his guests were in a good mood when they went down to greet the poor folk in the hearth room. The people were sitting around the table eating milk porridge and drinking stout. Kristin went back and forth to the table, serving the old and the sick.

Lavrans greeted his guests and asked them if they were satisfied with the food. Then he went over to welcome a poor old peasant man who had been moved to Jørundgaard that very day. The man’s name was Haakon, and he had been a soldier under old King Haakon and had taken part in the king’s last expedition to Scotland. Now he was impoverished and nearly blind. People had offered to build a cottage for him, but he preferred to be taken from farm to farm, since he was received everywhere as an honored guest. He was unusually knowledgeable and had seen so much of the world.

Lavrans stood with his hand on his brother’s shoulder; Aasmund Bjørgulfsøn had come to Jørundgaard as a guest. He too asked Haakon whether he was satisfied with the food.

“The ale is good, Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn,” said Haakon. “But a slut must have made the porridge for us today. Overly bedded cooks make overly boiled porridge, as the saying goes, and this porridge is scorched.”

“It’s a shame for me to give you burned porridge,” said Lavrans. “But I hope that the old saying isn’t always true, because it was my daughter herself who made the porridge.” He laughed and asked Kristin and Tordis to hurry and bring in the meat dishes.

Kristin dashed outside and over to the cookhouse. Her heart was pounding—she had caught a glimpse of her uncle’s face when Haakon was talking about the cook and the porridge.

Late that evening she saw her father and uncle talking for a long time as they walked back and forth in the courtyard. She was dizzy with fear, and it was no better the next day when she noticed that her father was taciturn and morose. But he didn’t say a word to her.

He said nothing after his brother left either. But Kristin noticed that he wasn’t talking to Haakon as much as usual, and when their time was up for housing the old man, Lavrans didn’t offer to keep him longer but let him move on to the next farm.

 

There were plenty of reasons for Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn to be unhappy and gloomy that summer, because there were signs it would be a bad harvest in the village. The landowners called a
ting
to discuss how they were going to face the coming winter. By late summer it was already clear to most people that they would have to slaughter their livestock or drive a large part of their cattle to market in the south in order to buy grain for people to eat in the winter. The year before had not been a good year for grain, so supplies of old grain were smaller than normal.

One morning in early autumn Ragnfrid went out with all three of her daughters to see to some linen she had spread out to bleach. Kristin praised her mother’s weaving skill. Then Ragnfrid began stroking Ramborg’s hair.

“This is for your wedding chest, little one.”

“Mother,” said Ulvhild, “will I have a chest too, if I go to a cloister?”

“You know that you’ll have no smaller dowry than your sisters,” said Ragnfrid. “But you won’t need the same kinds of things. And you know that you can stay with your father and me for as long as we live . . . if that’s what you want.”

“And by the time you go to the convent,” said Kristin, her voice quavering, “it’s possible, Ulvhild, that I will have been a nun for many years.”

She glanced at her mother, but Ragnfrid was silent.

“If I could have married,” said Ulvhild, “I would never have turned away from Simon. He was kind, and he was so sad when he said goodbye to all of us.”

“You know your father has said we shouldn’t talk about this,” said Ragnfrid.

But Kristin said stubbornly, “Yes, I know he was sadder to part with all of you than with me.”

Her mother said angrily, “He wouldn’t have had much pride if he had shown you his sorrow. You didn’t deal fairly with Simon Andressøn, my daughter. And yet he asked us not to threaten you or curse you.”

“No, he probably thought he had cursed me so much that no one else needed to tell me how wretched I was,” said Kristin in the same manner as before. “But I never noticed that Simon was particularly fond of me until he realized that I held another man dearer than I held him.”

“Go on home,” said Ragnfrid to the two younger ones. She sat down on a log lying on the ground and pulled Kristin down by her side. “You know very well,” she began, “that it has always been thought more proper and honorable for a man not to speak too much of love to his betrothed—or to sit alone with her or show too much feeling.”

“I’d be amazed,” said Kristin, “if young people in love didn’t forget themselves once in a while, instead of always keeping in mind what their elders regard as proper.”

“Take care, Kristin,” said her mother, “that you do keep it in mind.” She was silent for a moment. “I think it’s probably true that your father is afraid you have thrown your love away on a man to whom he is unwilling to give you.”

“What did my uncle say?” asked Kristin after a moment.

“Nothing except that Erlend of Husaby has better lineage than reputation,” her mother said. “Yes, he did ask Aasmund to put in a good word for him with Lavrans. Your father wasn’t pleased when he heard about it.”

But Kristin sat there beaming. Erlend had spoken to her uncle. And here she had been so miserable because he hadn’t sent any word.

Then her mother spoke again. “Now, Aasmund did mention something about a rumor going around Oslo that this Erlend had been hanging around the streets near the convent and that you had gone out and talked to him by the fence.”

“Is that so?” said Kristin.

“Aasmund advised us to accept this offer, you see,” said Ragnfrid. “But then Lavrans grew angrier than I’ve ever seen him before. He said that a suitor who took such a path to his daughter would find him with his sword in hand. The manner in which we dealt with the Dyfrin people was dishonorable enough, but if Erlend had lured you into taking to the roads with him in the dark—and while you were living in a convent, at that—then Lavrans would take it as a sure sign that you would be better served to lose such a husband.”

Kristin clenched her fists in her lap. The color came and went in her face. Her mother put her arm around her waist, but Kristin wrenched herself loose and screamed, beside herself with outrage, “Leave me be, Mother! Or maybe you’d like to feel whether I’ve grown thicker around the middle.”

The next moment she was on her feet, holding her hand to her cheek. In confusion she stared down at her mother’s furious face. No one had struck her since she was a child.

“Sit down,” said Ragnfrid. “Sit down,” she repeated so that her daughter obeyed. The mother sat in silence for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was unsteady.

“I’ve always known, Kristin, that you’ve never been very fond of me. I thought it might be because you didn’t think I loved you enough—not the way your father loves you. I let it pass. I thought that when the time came for you to have children yourself, then you would realize . . .

“Even when I was nursing you, whenever Lavrans came near, you would always let go of my breast and reach out to him and laugh so the milk ran out of your mouth. Lavrans thought it was funny, and God knows I didn’t begrudge him that. I didn’t begrudge you either that your father would play and laugh whenever he saw you. I felt so sorry for you, poor little thing, because I couldn’t help weeping all the time. I worried more about losing you than I rejoiced at having you. But God and the Virgin Mary know that I loved you no less than Lavrans did.”

Tears ran down over Ragnfrid’s cheeks, but her face was quite calm and her voice was too.

“God knows that I never resented him or you because of the affection you shared. I thought that I had not given him much happiness during the years we had lived together, and I was glad that he had you. And I also thought that if only my father Ivar had treated me that way . . .

“There are many things, Kristin, that a mother should teach her daughter to watch out for. I didn’t think it was necessary with you, since you’ve been your father’s companion all these years; you ought to know what is proper and right. What you just mentioned—do you think I would believe that you would cause Lavrans such sorrow?

“I just want to say that I wish you would find a husband you could love. But then you must behave sensibly. Don’t let Lavrans get the idea that you have chosen a troublemaker or someone who doesn’t respect the peace and honor of women. For he would never give you to such a man—not even if it were a matter of protecting you from public shame. Then Lavrans would rather let steel be the judge between him and the man who had ruined your life.”

And with that her mother rose and left her.

ON SAINT BARTHOLOMEW’S DAY, the twenty-fourth of August, the grandson of blessed King Haakon was acclaimed at the Hauga
ting
. Among the men who were sent from northern Gudbrandsdal was Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn. He had been one of the king’s men since his youth, but in all those years he had seldom spent any time with the king’s retainers, and he had never tried to use for his own benefit the good name he had won in the campaign against Duke Eirik. He was not very keen on going to the
ting
of acclamation either, but he couldn’t avoid it. The tribunal officials from Norddal had also been given the task of attempting to buy grain in the south and send it by ship to Raumsdal.

The people in the villages were despondent and worried about the approaching winter. The peasants also thought it a bad sign that yet another child was to be king of Norway. Old people remembered the time when King Magnus died and his sons were children.

Sira Eirik said, “
Vae terrae, ubi puer rex est
. In plain Norwegian it means: there’s no peace at night for the rats on the farm when the cat is young.”

Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter managed the farm while her husband was away, and both she and Kristin were glad to have their minds and hands full of cares and work. Everyone in the village was struggling to gather moss in the mountains and to cut bark because there was so little hay and almost no straw, and even the leaves that were collected after midsummer were yellow and withered. On Holy Cross Day, when Sira Eirik carried the crucifix across the fields, there were many in the procession who wept and loudly entreated God to have mercy on men and beasts.

 

One week after Holy Cross Day, Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn came home from the
ting
.

It was long past everyone’s bedtime, but Ragnfrid was still sitting in her weaving room. She had so much to do these days that she often worked into the night at her weaving and sewing. And Ragnfrid always felt so happy in that building. It was thought to be the oldest one on the farm; they called it the women’s house, and people said it had stood there since heathen times. Kristin and the maid named Astrid were with Ragnfrid, spinning wool next to the open hearth.